Page 5 of Heartbeats and Hashtags
He nods. It might be nice to have a break from an assignment for a while. Maybe I’ll try Brazilian-Ju-Jitsu again or catch up with Finley and Chuck.
“Pass me the cue, bro,”Finley shouts at me over the loud music in the bar.
I hand him the pool cue.
“Wanna come to the Everglades this weekend with me and Jules?”
I rack my brain for an excuse not to go. I love Finley, but his latest fling Jules isn’t my idea of enjoyable company. The one time we all went to dinner, she complained about the temperature and kept calling me “Kale” even after several corrections.
Chuck snorts. “Why would he want to do that? No offense, but Jules is a bore.”
I elbow Chuck, throwing him a stern look. He shrugs unapologetically.
“Screw you, Chuck. At least I have a girlfriend,” Finley defends half-heartedly. He doesn’t disagree with the insult toward Jules.
“I’ll let you know, man. I might have plans with some guys from work,” I lie. It’s a believable excuse — me and a couple other guys from the security squad sometimes hang out on coordinated days off, though it’s rare.
Finley nods in understanding.
“Another beer?” Chuck asks, nodding at my bottle. I shake my head no. I’m ready to head home, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be talking to any women here tonight.
“You sure?” Chuck shouts over the music.
“Yeah, I’m probably going to take off soon.”
He pouts dramatically. “But you’re doing such a good job of scaring off potential hookups with that resting bitch face.”
I chuckle. Chuck is convinced my neutral expression repels women and doesn’t let me forget it. The pool balls clatter as Finley sinks another solid shot. He pumps his fist in victory.
“Oh yeah, pay up! I told you I could make it. You owe me twenty bucks.” Chuck groans and begrudgingly hands Finley the money.
“I need another beer,” he grumbles, heading to the bar.
As Chuck turns to head to the bar, a large, bald man bumps into him aggressively. I tense up, immediately sober and alert.
“Watch where you’re going, fatso!” the man sneers, shoving Chuck way too hard.
Chuck is only 5’6” and stocky. While he has a heart of gold and is probably the funniest guy I know, this jerk is pushing him around, and he’s not great at standing up for himself.
I make a split-second decision to intervene.
“Hey, asshole!” I yell out. “Pick on someone your own size, yeah?”
The bald man scowls at me. “You defending this hobbit?” He gestures rudely at Chuck.
I see Chuck’s face fall at the height insult. It’s always been a sore subject for him. I step closer, squaring my shoulders and using my formidable 6’4” frame to make it clear I won’t back down from this bully.
“Apologize,” I say, my voice steady and commanding.
My hearing dulls as adrenaline narrows my focus into threat assessment mode — a skill honed from training. I barely register the music or other bar noise now.
“How’s this for an apology?” the man growls. Before he can throw the sucker punch, I’ve already analyzed his stance and figured out what he’s about to do. He’s intoxicated and slow. I couldn’t be more alive in this moment.
I catch his incoming fist easily in one hand. In a quick series of movements almost too fast to track, I have him in an inescapable headlock. He struggles uselessly but manages to get one punch in. It lands purely due to the weight behind him. I apply just enough pressure to teach this punk a lesson. Don’t fuck with me or my friends if you want to stay conscious.
He goes deadweight, dropping heavily to the floor. I feel a single drop of blood from his wild swing travel down my lip, but I ignore it. I’ve endured far worse injuries. The bar patrons are watching with impressed curiosity now rather than alarm.
Out the corner of my eye, I see a bouncer approaching to intervene. I release the headlock. The guy stays down, ego more bruised than this body. Message received.
